(Poem #370 on new numbering scheme)
"It's just like dust," she said without delay. But no, it wasn't dust. It was more like pale scatterings of quantum quarks at play and then taking a rest - or gone on strike. She found a bone - part of an angel's wing. She wondered out loud, "How did this get here?" It seemed like all was dead - yes, everything. Her slow gaze swept around. She felt some fear. So turning, she walked back to the strange gate. She'd found it in her dream, and gone through quick. But now she felt regret. It was too late. The path was lengthening, the air grew thick. If finally she made it back to home, She'd never forget that dream's monochrome.
[daily log: walking, 7km]